Closer
by I am hurricane
Summary: His warm, steady hands fall away as he takes a step back from her, cursing at himself under his breath, "Sorry." He says, gruffly as he rakes a hand through his messy hair, unable to meet her eyes. "I know I just…I can't." His shoulders sag as he shakes his head. He looks so lost and boyish all of a sudden. Which is a quick turn around from how he'd been just a few seconds ago.
1. You're Not Alone

Stiles sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the old Foundry Bridge, his eyes staring down at the dark churning water below. Headlights cut through the darkness, casting light over his shoulder. He hears the choke and rattle of an old engine, that he's come to know so well by ear. He doesn't even have to look up to know it was her. He's not sure why she'd still bother looking for him, not after how they'd left things.

He closes his eyes, and listens to the staccato of her boots, as she navigates her way across the warped old bridge in the dark. He hears her still for a moment, and feels her eyes on him. She takes a deep breath before she swings her leg over the railing and carefully sets herself down beside him.

 _She's so close_. Her thigh is pressed right up against his, and he can feel the warmth of her presence bleed right through his clothes. He's been sitting up here for hours, and he's cold—so cold he's almost numb. And here she is beside him giving off a plethora of warmth. He wants to pull her closer and soak it up. But he stops himself from reaching for her, he doesn't want to confuse her more than he already has. Its better this way, if he stays aloof, then maybe he won't draw her any further into this mess.

It's no accident that she's sitting so close. He can feel the tension in her body, he can sense her discomfort and fear. _She hates heights_. She's only up here right now for him. And even after everything he's done she still at the most basic level associates him with safety. A hot spike of pride shoots through him at the realization. He presses it down.

"What are you doing here, Malia?" he breathes out.

"Making sure your clumsy ass doesn't fall off this bridge." she grumbles under her breath.

Stiles blows out a breath, "My 'clumsy ass' is just fine, thank you." he says as he keeps his eyes trained on the dark river.

Malia shakes her head, and her soft hair brushes against the cool skin of his neck. Stiles can't help but shudder at the way it tingles across his numb skin. "If you were fine, then you wouldn't be up here punishing yourself."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I'm not punishing myself."

"Then what are you doing?"

Stiles shrugs, "I'm just…thinking."

 _She's so close, it's distracting._ With every breath she takes, her arm brushes up against his. And it grates against his nerves. It's like the heat of her body is taunting him. He doesn't want her here. Not now. Not when he feels this raw and volatile. No good can come from talking with him right now. He just wants to be left alone.

Malia makes a small dismissive sound. "No, you're not."

Stiles turns to look at her for the first time, his eyes glinting with anger. "It's rude to pick up on people's chemo signals without their permission." He snaps.

She flinches at his tone of voice. But doesn't drop her eyes.

"I didn't have to." she whispers. "I know you. And you can't keep still when you're thinking."

Stiles drops his head and winces. _He's an asshole._

"What do you want from me, Malia?" he pleads, tiredly. _Hasn't he already hurt her enough?_ He broke up with her at the sheriff's station this morning. _So, why is she still here?_ The longer she sits here with him the more he's going to say stupid things to push her away. And he doesn't want to hurt her. He's never wanted to hurt her.

"I heard about what happened with you and Scott and I just…I needed to make sure you were, OK."

His throat clenches, and he lifts his head his eyes searching hers.

Then the wind picks up, and the rickety old bridge shudders and groans beneath them. Malia hisses, dropping her eyes to curl her fingers tightly around the rusted metal ledge. Stiles can feel her trembling against him. And he hates that she's putting herself in this position for him. Stiles reaches out and braces her, barring her from the edge. "Malia, you should go." he coaxes in her ear, "You're no good with heights. And you shouldn't be up here worrying about me."


	2. Things We Lost in the Fire

"Malia, you should go." he coaxes in her ear, "You're no good with heights. And you shouldn't be up here worrying about me."'

Malia stiffens her lip and shakes her head, "I can handle it."

"Stubborn." Stiles grumbles under his breath.

The wind swirls all around them, whipping through their hair and pressing against their backs. Stiles squares his shoulders trying to shield her from the brunt of it. The rusted-out metal bridge lurches and moans beneath them. Malia whimpers, her eyes screwing up tight. Stiles keeps her close, twisting his fingers in her jacket to hold her steady. Her hair lashes in the wind, brushing over his face and tickling his nose.

After a few seconds the wind dies down and eventually the bridge stops quaking. Malia takes a steadying breath and lifts her head. Her eyes dart to him, and he's suddenly very aware of how tightly he's still clutching her. His hands fall away and Malia scoots back from him and the ledge. Cold air rushes in filling up the space she had just occupied. He shivers at the bite of it. Malia slides back carefully until her back presses against the remains of a warped handrail. She curls her fingers tightly around one of the bars, her claws biting into the rusted metal.

"You should go," he says, flatly as he turns away. His shoulders hunch as his eyes fall back to the dark churning water below. He rubs his hands together to keep them from shaking with cold. He tries his best to ignore her. He wills the cold to numb his thoughts and feelings. He thinks he might be halfway to managing it when she breaks the silence.

"You were right about, Theo." she whispers "I should've trusted you."

His entire body goes rigid, "What did he do?—" He lifts his head his eyes searching hers urgently. "—What did _he_ do to you?" He can barely keep the snarl out of his voice. A wild sort of anger slices through him, igniting his blood. He doesn't care that the guy is a werewolf and that he's hopelessly outmatched against him. If Theo hurt her… _Then he's gonna break off a branch of mountain ash, roll it in mistletoe, wrap it in barbed wire, and shove it—_

"He's twisting his way into everyone's head." Malia seethes. "He tried to tell me about what happened with Donovan. Tried to convince me that you didn't have to kill him. That you just lost it—but I know that isn't you."

Stiles drops his eyes, as the anger recedes and the guilt seeps in. "How do you know he wasn't telling you the truth?"

Her eyes cut to him, "Don't be an idiot."

Stiles shrugs, "I'm serious, you weren't there."

He refuses to look at her. Malia glares at the back of his head, before retracting her claws from the warped handrail, and skidding back out onto the ledge. Her shoulder knocks roughly into his as she settles beside him. Her fear of the bridge vanishing beneath a fierce and coursing need for him to listen to her.

"I know you're not a killer," she insists, ardently.

Stiles stares down at the black water, feeling more lost than ever.

"How?" He whispers in a broken voice.

"Because you're nothing like me."

His head whips up, "Mal—"

"Whenever I'm scared or I feel like someone is a threat my first instinct is to calculate how to take them down. It's a reflex I have to fight it every second of the day. You're not like that. You're different…you figure people out. You save them. I know how stubborn you are, how patient, how good. I know you're not a killer, Stiles. It's not in your nature. Anything you did you did to survive."

Even in the faint light of the moon he can see the conviction burning in her eyes. He feels so unworthy of it. He blinks rapidly, dropping his eyes. "It…it felt _good_ ," he says in a small voice. "I wasn't just relieved to be alive…It was more than that…It felt good that I killed him." he admits, disgusted with himself.

"He went there to kill you, Stiles. You were running on adrenaline and pure instinct. Things that kick in to keep you alive. If you really wanted him dead then it wouldn't be eating you up like this."

Stiles bows his head, "After I was possessed, I told myself that all that anger, all that darkness…it wasn't me. But now I'm not so sure. What if it didn't all come from the nogitsune? What if he just used something that was already inside me?"

He's so caught up in these dark thoughts, that he doesn't even realize that his hands have started shaking. Malia reaches out and gathers them in hers. Stiles sucks in a breath, as the warmth of her touch sinks into his skin. His eyes fall to her lap, where she's trapped his hands between hers. She's barely able to cover them with hers, so she rubs her hands along his trying to work heat into his numb fingers. _Her hands are so small._ He's always marvelled at that. At how such powerful hands can fit so easily between his long clumsy fingers.

"Hey," she says, roughly "If there is one thing that you are, it's good." He won't meet her eyes, so Malia just stares down at his hands in her lap. "When we met, you were locked up in Eichen House, you had an evil fox spirit in your head, and everybody you cared about was in danger. You were running out of time, starting to lose yourself to the nogitsune. You weren't sure if you were going to live or die. And even in the middle of the worst day of your life you, you noticed that _I_ was cold," she reminds him with a shake of her head. "You reached out just like this," she murmurs, clasping his hands tightly between hers. "And you tried to make it better _because that's who you are_."

His eyes dart to her, his lips parting in suprise. Malia ducks her head and lifts his hands. Bringing them up to her lips, she cups his cold hands over her mouth and blows a warm breath into them. It's a trick that he'd taught her, to stay warm. And he'd done it for her thousands of times before. But in this moment he's struck by the intimacy of the gesture. Her lips just barely brush over his skin as she pulls back, and something deep inside him starts to thaw. Her hands slip down to his wrists and she shivers.

"Stiles, you're freezing," she hisses. "Let me take you home."

His throat clenches, "I can't," he says thickly, "I can't go home, I can't go to Scott's, the Jeep's gone. I—I've got nowhere to go."

Malia squeezes his hands, "Then come with me. I've got a place you can go to think and it's warm."

A freezing drop of rain falls on his head, jarring him from his thoughts. A few seconds later more splash down wetly on his shoulder and his leg before a pitter patter of rain starts falling all around them. Malia lets go of his hands and slides back from the ledge. Grasping the handrail she climbs to her feet and stretches out her hand to him. "C'mon," she urges.

He hesitates for a second before reaching out to take it, and Malia pulls him to his feet. She eases her way toward the railing, and Stiles even though he's shaking in earnest now reaches out to steady her as she climbs over it and off the edge of the bridge. Once her feet are on sturdier ground, she grabs him by the shoulders, and guides him safely over. With her hand on his back she navigates them across the rain-slicked rickety bridge. Stiles wraps his arms around himself, as the rain soaks through his jacket. His teeth are chattering and his shoulders shaking by the time they get to the car.

She pushes him into the passenger seat and then crawls over top of him and shuts the door. She pushes his wet hair off his forehead, and tucks in his seatbelt. Her fingers fumble with the keys and she curses. Then the old car roars to life and Malia cranks up the heater.

Rain splatters against the windows, and the windshield wipers squeak as they drive. Stiles is shivering hard, his chin pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Malia's hands are tense on the wheel, and every few seconds she casts a worried glance his way.

The car starts to rattle as they turn onto an old gravel road. Stiles lifts his head, squinting through the windshield. His eyebrows quirk upward when he realizes where she's taking him.

As the car pulls up to the Tate's rustic two-story farmhouse Stiles glances her way nervously. Mr. Tate had never been his biggest fan. But this summer when Mr. Tate had discovered that Malia and him had been having 'sleepovers' Stiles had promptly been banned from the house.

"M-Malia are you sh-sure this is a g-good—"

"My dad's out of town this weekend," she says as she unclips her seatbelt. "He said I wasn't allowed to have my boyfriend over, but right now we're just friends…so technically I won't be lying to him," she says, with a slightly guilty expression. She hops out of her door and runs around the side of the car. She pulls him to his feet and hustles him up the front steps. Stiles leans against against the side of the house weakly as she unlocks the front door.

She tugs him inside and kicks off her shoes. Her dog Beau barks boisterously as they step inside. He wags his tail and brushes up against them both. Malia dodges around Beau and dashes into the living room. Stiles leans against the wall and Beau whines happily licking his hand. Stiles sluggishly scratches the dog's ears.

"Hey, fella." he says hoarsely. Malia grabs a towel from the laundry basket on the couch and rushes over to him. She rubs the towel through his hair, then wraps it around his shoulders.

"C'mon, lets get you warmed up," she says, tugging on the edges of the towel. Stiles nods shakily, following her lead up the stairs.


	3. Close Quarters

They're both dripping wet from the rain as she pulls him up the stairs. He leans heavily against her, his motions clumsy. Malia ushers him down the hallway until she suddenly hesitates, her feet faltering. She had fled the house in such a rush to find him that she'd left her bedroom door _wide open_. She stiffens, she doesn't want him to discover what she's been up to. Stiles sways slightly on his feet and Malia readjusts her grip on him.

Gritting her teeth, she drags him quickly past her door hoping that he's too disoriented to notice the investigation web on her wall. At the end of the hall, she flicks on a light and pulls him into the farmhouse's pallid green bathroom. She leaves Stiles leaning against the sink and strides over to bathtub. Shoving aside a garishly coloured shower curtain, she reaches inside, cranking hard on the taps, until with a squeal water spurts from the shower-head. The quiet bathroom is suddenly filled with the steady drum of the shower rushing against the floor of the tub.

Malia turns back to Stiles. He's still shivering but he's managed to straighten up against the sink. He spares a glance across the small distance between them, looking quite uncertain, before dropping his eyes. Malia's throat goes dry, as it occurs to her that the last time they were alone together in this bathroom… _it was under markedly different circumstances_. Heat flushes across her damp chilled skin, at the memory from earlier this summer. And she's suddenly made painfully aware of how cramped this bathroom actually is.

He's shuddering. His shirt is soaked through, and it clinging to his torso. His messy hair is plastered to his forehead, falling just above his deep brown eyes. He's obviously cold, but for a moment there's a flicker of heat in his eyes as if he's thinking about the same thing she is.

It startles her enough to look away. She forces down the feelings being here with him dredges up, and folds her arms across her chest.

"You're gonna need to lose the clothes, Stilinski," she says, as evenly as possible. Stiles swallows visibly and nods. Bracing his hand on the sink, he toes off his sodden shoes. Before leaning away from the sink and reaching for the top button of his shirt. But his fingers must still be numb because they fumble uselessly on his shirt. She watches him struggle fruitlessly for a moment or two before she moves impatiently into his space.

"Here," she brushes his hands aside, and takes hold of his shirt. She unceremoniously begins unbuttoning it, keeping her hands clinical and efficient. She's helped him take off his shirt hundreds of times before. So, this shouldn't be any different…expect of course all the other times she'd done this she'd been able to look him in the eye.

As the shower runs, steam starts to build up and it slowly fills the bathroom, engulfing them in warmth. Malia can't suppress a shiver as it laps at her skin chasing away the numbness. His eyes dart to her, as a soft sigh falls from her lips. Embarrassed, she bites her lip and squints overly focused on the buttons of his shirt. They're so close that all she can hear is the rush of the shower and his warm ragged breathing. She shifts on her bare feet and avoids the way he's looking at her. When the last button pulls free she steps back in relief, and brushes a hand through her tangled, wet hair.

His shirt dangles open flashing a glimpse of his lean muscles and pale skin. Malia's eyes quickly shift away.

"Th-thanks," he mutters quietly, as he moves stiffly working his shirt the rest of the way off. It slaps down wetly on the green ceramic floor.

He isn't shivering as hard anymore and his breathing has started to even out. But his movements are still a bit disjoined. He shifts away from the sink a little too quickly and ends up staggering forward. Malia's hands shoot out, grasping his shoulders to steady him.

"You alright?" she asks, a little breathless at his sudden proximity. Her thumb unconsciously strokes over the spate of moles that run down his shoulder, realizing her mistake she jerks her hand away and hopes that he's still to numb to have noticed. "You should, uh, hop in the shower and warm up. I'll go find you some dry clothes," she blurts out, drawing back from him.

Stiles blinks, the hazy look in his eyes disappearing, as they sober with concern. "Q-quit worrying 'bout me. Y-you sh-should go d-dry off," he manages to force out.

She waves him off. "I'm fine."

His eyes narrow. "Y-you're sh-shivering."

Malia rolls her eyes at him. "You're one to talk…" she grumbles, stopping short when he tugs a towel down off the towel rack and sloppily draws it around her. The warmth of the towel settles snugly around her shoulders. The sweetness of the gesture and the way he's looking at her only makes her heart ache. So she's quick to put distance back between them. "I'll go get you those clothes now," she rattles off quickly, before fleeing the bathroom.

* * *

 **Sorry for the lag in updates. It's been a busy month and I've had to replace my computer. This is for all you Stalia lovers!**


	4. Your Ratty Old Shirt

Malia slams her bedroom door shut and tears the towel off her shoulders, hurling it away from herself. Frustration and sadness claw at her throat. She swallows hard, holding back the tears that bead at the corner of her eyes. Screwing her eyes up tight, she lets out a low shuddering growl.

Her fists clenching at her sides. _Why does everything have to be so damn hard?_ She slumps against the door, and thumps the back of her head against it. She stays their for a moment with her eyes shut tight, as raindrops slowly trail off her clothes, her feet leaving soggy imprints in the carpet.

Then she shakes her head and pushes herself off the door. She peels off her wet clothes and yanks open her dresser drawer. Her teeth are starting to chatter as she tugs on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. She snags the towel from the floor and runs it through her hair as she moves to her closet. Pushing open her closet door, she instinctively reaches for her favourite warm shirt, that hangs with her assortment of sweaters. But her fingers falter as they close around the worn brushed-cotton sleeve.

 _It's his shirt._ She'd had it since that night they'd spent driving back from Mexico. It had been cold in the desert after dark, and she'd been injured by a berserker, so she'd had trouble keeping warm. Everyone else was asleep in Jeep, except for Stiles who had kept casting worried glances her way as he drove. After she'd brushed off his concern more than a few times he huffed and shrugged off his thick plaid shirt, and tucked it around her. It was warm, and so soft against her skin, and his scent clung to the fabric. He must have been cold in just his t-shirt, but he'd never given a hint of discomfort. In fact the rest of the drive home, whenever his eyes would linger on her, he seemed really pleased with himself.

She had alway meant to return it. But it was just so warm and comfortable and after a long hard day, it was just so soothing to wrap herself up in it. So she'd kept it. No matter how many times she'd washed it, his scent still clung to the worn fabric. _It made her feel so safe._ Stiles had caught her wearing it more than a few times around her house. He'd give her this crooked little grin, and teasingly call her a _"shirt-thief."_ He'd always joked that he'd have to steal it away from her, but he never did.

Malia lets go of the sleeve, and grabs one of her sweaters instead. She tugs the sweater over her head and hisses as it drags harshly over the goosebumps on her skin. She starts to tug her closet door closed, when she hesitates, her eyes lingering on the old plaid shirt. _Stiles needs dry clothes._ Malia shakes her head and slams the closet door. The selfish part of her doesn't want to give it up. She makes it about three paces away from her closet door before she stops, and clenches her eyes shut, gritting her teeth.

 _But it's Stiles…and he's hurting…and she can never be selfish when it comes to him._

So she spins on her heel and marches back to the closet. Thrusting open the door she yanks the shirt down off the hanger and bunches it in her fist. She's careful to shut her door on the way out. The last thing she needs is for Stiles to see her makeshift evidence board and figure out that she's been playing detective without him.

She trots down the stairs and strides into the living room. Finding the laundry basket on the couch she sorts through it finding some of her dad's clothes, a t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants and a set of thick wool socks. She gathers them into a neat pile and sets the laundry basket aside. Somewhere in the distance her cellphone buzzes. Malia tilts her head curiously, she must have left it behind, when she'd gone to find Stiles. She tracks it to the kitchen table. She raises an eyebrow when she picks it up to find that she has ten new texts.

She flicks open the last message and grins when she see's a picture that her dad has sent her of himself in front of a stock-car.

 _(10:00 pm)_

 ** _Thanks Spitfire!_**

 ** _Daytona 500 is amazing. Best. Birthday. Present. Ever._**

Malia feels a little bad about using his birthday gift as an excuse to get him out of town for a few days. But with the desert wolf so close she couldn't risk him being around. She had to keep him safe. She's already lost her mom and little sister, to this monster, she won't lose him to.

The next three texts are also from her dad.

(8:20 pm)

 _ **Don't forget to lock the front gate.** _

**_And don't let that boy talk you into letting him come over._**

(8:42 pm)

 _ **Maybe you should stay over at Kira's or Lydia's instead?** _

Malia rolls her eyes, fondly. If her Dad ever found out how many dangers she dealt with on a daily basis, he'd have a heart attack.

 _(9:20 pm)_

 ** _You sure you're O.K. at home alone?_**

 ** _Did you lock the front gate?_**

Malia snorts and shakes her head, "Yeah, Dad, I think I can handle it," she says aloud to herself, as she taps out a quick message.

(10:28 pm)

 ** _Stop obsessing. I'm fine. Have fun._**

She scrolls down through her messages as she makes her way back into the living room. Her heart picks up speed when she sees a single cryptic message from Braeden's burner phone.

(9:00 pm)

 ** _I've acquired the target._**

 ** _She's two days from your location._**

 ** _You sure you're up for this, Kid?_**

Malia replies without hesitation.

(10:30 pm)

 ** _Absolutely._**

(10:31 pm)

 ** _Good. I'll be in touch._**

Malia grimaces as she sees that the next four messages are from Scott.

(6:00 pm)

 _ **Pack meeting. My house. In 20.** _

_(6:52 pm)_

 ** _Where r u?_**

(7:00 pm)

 **Malia?**

 _(7:15 pm)_

 ** _Is this about Stiles?_**

Malia grits her teeth and punches out a reply.

(10:30 pm)

 ** _After what you did to Stiles I've got nothing to say._**

The last three messages were from… _Theo_.

(8:23 pm)

 ** _I meant what I said about Stiles._**

 ** _You should stay away from him._**

 ** _He's dangerous._**

 _(8:30 pm)_

 ** _I don't think you took off because of_**

 ** _what I said about him. I think you_**

 ** _took off because of what's going on_**

 ** _with us._**

 _(8:34 pm)_

 ** _C'mon, Malia. I know you feel it too._**

Malia clenches the phone so hard in her anger that she accidentally cracks the screen. She curses under her breath and loosens her grip. Then she growls and tosses the phone away from herself before she's temped to crush it beyond recognition. It lands in the nearby laundry basket with a _thunk!_

 _\- STAY TUNED FOR MORE-_


	5. Frayed Around the Edges

Stiles leans his hands against the cool tiles, letting the hot spray of the shower rush over him. Sucking in deep gulps of steamy air. He stands there unmoving, for the longest time as as the hot water sluices down his body, unlocking his tense and quaking muscles. As heat flushes his skin, and sinks deep into his muscles, he's convinced that nothing has ever felt this good. He stays beneath the spray until the water runs tepid. Only then does he spin off the taps and shove the shower curtain aside. He snags a towel down off the rack and runs it through his hair before wrapping it around his waist.

Heat prickles across his skin, and all his muscles are incredibly lax. He's suddenly drowsy, his eyelids heavy, and drooping. He runs a hand through his wet hair, and rests his head in his hand for few seconds, exhaustedly. When he lifts his head he blinks up at the bathroom mirror. He tilts his head curiously, when he notices that she's left him a message in the condensation on the mirror.

 _Put these on._

Stiles follows the arrow that she's drawn beneath her message on the edge of the mirror downward, to a stack of warm clothes set on the corner of the sink. Warmth curls in his chest, and his throat tightens. _Thanks, baby._

He gratefully tugs on the grey sweatpants and reaches for the t-shirt. He's about to pull it over his head when he freezes. The last item folded neatly left on the corner of the sink is a very familiar old shirt. Stiles reaches out and runs his fingers along the ridiculously soft, worn cotton. It was a thick, dark olive green and navy blue plaid shirt, with snags in the fabric and frayed edges. He drops his hand. It was just a beat-up old shirt. _But she'd held onto it for a year._ And every time he seen her wearing it, this primal sort of satisfaction would settle in his chest.

Seeing it sitting there now, abandoned on the edge of the sink left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was jarred from staring at it by a knock at the door.

"Yeah, c'mon in." He calls out, gruffly as he shrugs the t-shirt over his head. Malia appears in the doorway, wearing a bulky maroon sweater, dark sweatpants and with a thick, grey toque pulled down over her ears. His mouth twitches at the sight of her in the thick wool winter cap.

Malia steps into the small bathroom, and turns a small red bag over in her hands, unzipping it.

"Take off your shirt," she says without preamble. Stiles raises an eyebrow at her. Malia sets the first-aid kit down on the edge of the tub. "I need to change the bandage on your shoulder."

Stiles tenses up, "Malia, it's fine."

"It'll get infected, if you don't keep it clean," she says, determinedly as she sets out a fresh gauze pad and tube of anti-septic, on the sink.

He crosses his arms in front of himself. "I've been taking care of it," he says tightly.

"How are you taking care of it? You can barely reach it!" Malia snaps. She presses a hand to her forehead for a moment and takes a steadying breath. His hands fall to his sides as he watches her, guilt swelling in his throat. "Stiles," she tries again quietly, as she lifts her head. "I've already seen the bite. So please just let me help you."

It the sadness and confusion in her eyes that is his undoing. He sighs and grabs the collar of his shirt, tugging it off.

* * *

 **Author's Note: God bless and Happy Easter! (happy long weekend to those of you who don't celebrate) And Happy Stalia to us all ;) P.S. for those of you who don't know what a toque is it's Canadian for (beanie, winter cap, skullcap) I'm just too much of a Canadian not to call it a toque it seems like fundamentally wrong to me to call it something else lol.**


	6. Old Wounds

The dressing on his shoulder is old, and clotted with blood. Malia's nose wrinkles as the bandage peels away slowly. Stiles hisses through his teeth as it catches and yanks against his torn flesh. Malia disposes of the old bandage.

The wound beneath is still raw and bloody, and the surrounding flesh looks angry and sore. Malia is frozen there for a second just mapping out the rows of jagged teeth marks left in a bloody spiral on his shoulder.

 _Donovan could've killed him._ Her coyote bristles beneath her skin. Malia clears her throat, ignoring her coyote's sudden urge to curl herself protectively around him, and snap at anyone dares to get too close.

"I'm gonna have to clean it," she warns, as she reaches around him to wet a clean cloth in the sink. Stiles nods, leaning forward and gripping the edges of the sink. She dabs around the edges of the wound lightly with the warm wash cloth, cleaning off the dry, caked on blood. "Get ready, this part is really gonna suck," she warns as she uncaps a bottle of saline and flushes out the wound.

His shoulders tense, his arms flexing as he tightens his grip on the sink. He hisses threw his teeth, but makes no further complaint, and it unsettles, Malia. He's a nervous talker, that's just how he's built. He doesn't keep still, and he's rarely quiet. And considering his tendency of getting into trouble with supernatural creatures, this is far from the first time she's had to patch up his wounds. Usually, he fidgets and rambles and flirts a little while she patches him. But right now he's so stoic, the only thing betraying his pain is his stiff muscles, and chemo signals.

She can't stand it. So she slides her hand up his back, and curls her hand around the nape of his neck. Dark veins rise up her arm, as she slowly steals his pain. Stiles sucks in a breath, his eyes darting up to meet hers in the mirror.

"Malia don't." he manages to grit out.

"Shhh, it'll help." She whispers, as she runs her thumb soothingly along the taunt muscles at the back of his neck.

* * *

 **Author's note:** **Don't worry guys I'm still working on this one I've just been distracted. Sorry for the short update. More to come I promise.**


	7. If These Walls Could Talk

The tension melts from his shoulders bit by bit, under her touch, until finally her hand slips down off his neck. She sucks in a shaky breath as his pain sinks into her skin, she feels a little lightheaded, but does her best not to show it. She steps away, busying her hands with finding medical tape and a fresh pad of gauze. She doesn't allow herself to turn back toward him until her hands are steady. When her eyes land on him she notices that he hasn't moved a muscle, he's still hunched over the sink. His jaw is tense, eyes pointing down, avoiding meeting his own eyes in the mirror.

Malia blows out a breath, frustrated with herself. She should know better than to think she could take away all his pain for a moment. Her power can only relieve physical pain, and this was so much more than that. She can practically feel the anguish when she looks at him. She hates it, she wants to snap at him. To yell at him and shake him, until he talks to her.

He's just too still, too quiet and its unnerving. She wishes he would just snark out something sarcastic. Or that he'd go back to talking a mile a minute, with his hands flailing in every direction. Actually at this point she'd even settle for him just tapping his foot, or fidgeting a little. Because she knows that Stiles, she knows what to do with that Stiles, but she's at a loss for how to deal with the boy standing before her now.

She goes back to the wound on his shoulder. She tries not to breathe through her nose, because though he definitely smells better than when she found him on the bridge, he still reeks of hopelessness and despair. She gently pats the skin around the edges of the wound dry, and feels marginally better now that the wound looks cleaner. She doesn't want to aggravate the wound, so instead of drying it directly she leans in and blows a warm breath over it. Stiles lets out a little gasp and shivers. Malia's eyes dart up and she finds Stiles staring at her in the mirror. He's blushing, and he gives her a little flicker of a smile, as he lifts an eyebrow at her. Triumph, leaps in her chest.

"Sorry," she mutters, not at all feeling remorseful. "I can't put the gauze on till it's dry."

"S'ok," he says, his voice coming out probably a little rougher than he intended, "You just, uh, surprised me."

Malia's ducks her head so he won't see her grin. "It's almost done. Just try and keep still."

Stiles licks his lips, his Adam's apple bobbing before he gives her a nod of consent.

This time when her breath ghosts over his skin, he shifts forward on his feet, and can't suppress a chuckle, "Tickles." He snorts, his tone bouncing with laughter. Her eyes catch his again in the mirror again, and this time there is a faint spark in those big brown eyes. Malia swallows down the lump in her throat. _There he is._

His warm brown eyes watching her in the mirror tug her headlong into a memory.

 _Breathless laughter echoes down the hallway, Malia throws open the bathroom door, sending it thudding against the wall. She rushes for the sink and turns the faucet, and water splashes down into the sink. She's got green paint all down the front of her shirt, and a handprint that stretches down one side of her face. Leaning over the sink, she cups water in her hands and splashes it over her face. Stiles catches up to her, stumbling blindly into the bathroom, paint slathered all over his face. Malia spits out a mouthful of water and snickers at the sight of him._

 _Blinded by paint, he feels his way along the wall toward her._

 _"_ _You're so gonna pay for this, Tate!" He mock growls._

 _Malia playfully nudges him with her shoulder, when he reaches her, "You started it."_

 _"_ _Hey, share." He whines, as he gently elbows his way in front of the sink. Cupping water in his hands he splashes his face repeatedly, and spits the paint from his mouth. When he straightens up, his face is still faintly stained, and watery green droplets drip down off his chin. "Did I get it?"_

 _Malia snorts at him, "Nope, not even a little bit."_

 _"_ _Thanks, Mal, you're so helpful." He quips, playfully flicking water in the direction of her voice. Malia lets out a little yip of surprise as the cool water sprays on her. Stiles smirks, before ducking back over the sink and flushing his face again._

 _Malia chews on her lip, trying not to laugh at him but he was really making it hard. Shaking her head she decides to take pity on him and snags a facecloth from the towel rack. She gently elbows him out of her way and rinses it with warm water._

 _"_ _Here, just c'mere." she says, steering him toward her, and cupping the back of his neck. She ruffles the cloth over his forehead, where the paint has started to dry, and carefully works the paint free from where its caked into his eyebrows. Stiles wrinkles his nose, twisting his head away from her, squirming like a child. "You're gonna have to keep still for a minute," she says, her voice still breathless with laughter._

 _"_ _It's kinda hard to keep still when you're, like, shamWowing my face." He complains, with his eyes still clenched shut._

 _Malia snickers, "Don't be such a baby, Stiles." Before letting go of him and rinsing out the cloth in the sink._

 _She rolls her eyes as Stiles grumbles, under his breath. "Not a baby…Pfft—werecoyotes."_

 _Ringing out the cloth, she turns back to him. Reaching up she gently cups the nape of his neck again, gently angling his head toward her._

 _"_ _You gonna keep still this time?" She teases._

 _"_ _I dunno, you gonna be gentle?" He fires back, arching an eyebrow at her suspiciously._

 _Even though his eyes are closed, Malia can't resist flashing him a wicked grin. "Probably not," she admits._

 _The corner of his mouth quirks up, despite himself. Then with a long-suffering sigh he rolls his shoulders. "O.K. Then, do you worst." His fingers start drumming on his thigh in his effort to keep still._

 _Malia bites her bottom lip, shaking her head at him. Despite all her teasing, she's gentler, this time. She softly dabs the washcloth around his eyes, delicately sweeping over the skin beneath his eyelids, and wetting his eyelashes. Before tenderly running it over his eyelids. She grins as his pale skin and dark moles start to emerge beneath the earthy green paint._

 _She rinses her cloth again, ringing it out slowly. When she turns back to him and lifts the cloth to his face she realizes that his eyes are still closed. And at some point, she's not sure when, he'd stopped drumming his fingers. She tilts her head, listening. His breathing is slow and deep, relaxed. Something peaceful and incredibly satisfying settles around her shoulders._

 _She slowly trails the cloth down one side of his jaw, then the other. She can't help letting her fingers lightly trace over the newly revealed skin, her thumb following the spate of moles that run along the side of his face. Then as if remembering herself, she pulls her hand away, and quickly ruffles the cloth down his face, tickling his nose. Stiles guffaws and swats the cloth away from his face._

 _His eyes flutter open, his eyelashes dark and shiny, his big brown eyes warm with laughter._

 _Malia teases, "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"_

 _Stiles narrows his eyes at her, playfully before hooking an arm around her waist, and tugging the washcloth from her grasp._

 _"_ _Stiles! Don't you even think about—" Her last words were muffled by the washcloth as Stiles ran it none too gently down her face. He grinned, dropping the washcloth and backing up, holding up his hands in a surrendering fashion._

 _Stiles smirked down at her, "Now we're even."_

 _Malia shoved him good-naturedly._

 _"What?" He chuckled, catching her hands, "You had something on your face?" Malia tugs her hands free and jabs her fingers into his sides, her fingers dancing along his ribs. Stiles throws his head back, laughing, as he tries to twist away from her hands. But Malia backs him into the wall tickling him mercilessly, until he's a mess of strangled laughter._

 _"_ _Truce!" he gasps out, Malia shakes her head, "O.K., alright you win!" He concedes and Malia relents, stepping back to appreciate her work. He sags against the wall, still snickering, his hair disheveled, his heart pounding, his eyes bright as they watch her. Malia steps into him sliding her hands up his sides, pressing a kiss to his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. Stiles tenses for all of two seconds when she does it, probably afraid she was gonna tickle him again. But when she doesn't, he relaxes against the wall, his arms curling around her back, pulling her closer. Malia turns her head and brushes a soft kiss against his cheek, before slowly trailing her lips along his jaw._

 _She stops at his ear. "I win." She purrs, sweetly. His hands flex on the small of her back, as her lips brush over his ear._

 _One of her hands slides into his hair, her nails scraping lightly along his scalp, and he leans into her touch._

 _His arms tighten around her, "I don't think this qualifies as losing," he admits, his voice coming out in that low, rough pitch that she likes so much. She grins and hides her face in his neck, just enjoying the moment. She listens to his excited heart-rate and breathes in his scent. He smells really, really good, even the harsh scent of paint that clings to his clothes can't taint it. He's happy, she realizes. Pulling back she looks at him and gives him a shy smile._

 _"_ _Thank you for my birthday present."_

 _"_ _Oh, so you liked it, that's why you threw it in my face," he snarks. Malia shakes her head at him._

 _"_ _You get paint on my face, I get paint on your face, rules of the wild kingdom."_

 _"_ _It dripped! You shouldn't have been under my ladder." He dismisses, then he ducks his head a little sheepishly. "So, you really like it?" He asks a little nervously._

 _"_ _Stiles, it's so pretty, it's like the perfect green."_

 _He smiles, his cheeks flushing. "Good." She catches a scent off of him, it's a rush of relief. Malia bites her lip. He'd taken her to the hardware store last night and told her to pick out whatever colour of paint that she wanted. But since he hated manual labour, she didn't think he was serious when he said he was going to help her paint her room. So when he'd shown up at her door bight and early this morning with paintbrushes and a ladder she'd been surprised._

 _"_ _Why is it so important to you that I paint my room?" She blurts out, suddenly curious._

 _Stiles shrugs his shoulders, "It's not its just, uh, it's like a rite of passage." Malia tilts her head, not quite believe him._

 _Stiles sighs, looking down for a moment and rubs at the back of his neck._

 _"_ _And y'know maybe because I thought that if it felt like home here…then maybe you'd stay," he admits, finally meeting her eyes._

 _At first it feels like she can't breathe and the way he's looking at her is overwhelming. She turns toward the door and forces herself to drag in a breath of air. Then as his words sink in, she feels a surge of something in her chest, it's pure and warm and absolutely uncontainable. She reaches out and closes the bathroom door, clicking the lock into place. She turns back toward Stiles and he's still against the wall. He's standing stock still staring at her, his heartbeat nervous, she doesn't even think he's breathing._

 _She slowly steps up to him, and slides her hands up to cradle his face. His lips part at the contact. Her thumbs slowly stroke back and forth along his jaw, as she tilts his down to look at her. "I'm not going anywhere, Stiles." she tells him earnestly._

 _"_ _Yeah?" He breathes out, "You're staying?"_

 _Malia rises up on her toes and presses her forehead to his."I'm staying."_

 _Stiles laughs, his arms tightening around her. She lets out a little yip of surprise when he lifts her off her feet and spins them in a circle. Then as he sets her back down he leans in and kisses sweetly, and sloppily while he grins. Malia laughs into his mouth. And Stiles pulls back and just smiles at her. She bites her lip and starts inching his t-shirt up, little by little._

 _"_ _You're covered in paint. We should do something about that." She says, steering him toward the shower. His eyes darken, and he goes along with her for a moment before catching her hands._

 _"_ _What, uh, what about you're dad isn't he supposed to be back any minute?" He asks, trying to be the voice of reason. Malia leans in and plants a kiss on his cheek._

 _"_ _I'll hear his truck long before he hits the gravel road. But if you don't want to risk it…" she says, tauntingly. With a slow coyote grin she toes off her shoes, and pulls her elastic free from her hair, and he swallows thickly as her hair tumbles down around her shoulders. Malia arches an eyebrow at him._

 _It takes him exactly three seconds to cave. "Ah, screw it!" He growls as he strides up to her and kisses her senseless._

She might have underestimated how distracting he could actually be, because she got herself grounded and him banned from the house that afternoon. But even as she shakes herself out of the memory now, she couldn't actually bring herself to regret it.


	8. You're Killing Me Here

Her touch is so gentle, almost imperceptibly light as her fingers smooth along the edges of the fresh gauze. _But it was killing him._ A few hours ago it had been so easy to put up a wall with her, so easy to let all the guilt and the self-loathing boil over into anger. He'd felt cornered in her car this morning, here he'd been doing everything humanly possible to act like nothing had happened in that library. Like he didn't have blood on his hands. The guilt and anxiety had been tying him into knots, for weeks. But he'd managed to keep it together, just barely. Then she blurts out that she had figured out his secret days ago and never said a word about it. Couldn't she tell how this had been eating him up inside? Didn't she care what this was doing to him? _How could it not matter to her?_

Anger and betrayal had rolled through him, burning hotter and cleaner than the rest of his messy emotions. So he'd seized it and let it burn all the way through him, he'd let it drive him to walk away. He'd kept it burning inside him, right up until the moment she'd sat down next to him on the edge of that bridge. She'd sat there beside him, terrified of heights, refusing to leave him. And that's when he realized that he wasn't angry at anyone but himself. She deserved so much better than him, because he had pushed her away today in his anger and fear. And yet there she'd sat, defiant. Of all the pack, of all of his friends she was the only one who came looking for him. The only one.

 _She wound't leave him behind, even though he'd given her every reason to._

He wants to take it all back. He wants to turn around and pull her into his chest, to hold onto her and never, ever let go. But as he catches her eyes in the mirror, something shifts in her eyes and she ducks her head avoiding his eyes, and quickly drops her hands.

"There, you're good. You can, uh, put your shirt back on." She says, tossing it at him. Stiles catches it and turns around to face her. Malia busies her hands with crumbling up the gauze wrapper and pitching in the trash. Stiles looks down at the shirt in his hands, before his eyes flick back up to look at her. Malia continues to skillfully avoid his gaze, which is admirable considering they are less than a foot apart, in a cramped bathroom.

Stiles swallows, "Thanks for patching me up." Malia shrugs folding her arms, still deflecting his eyes. He reaches out and cups her elbow, "I mean it." He says softly, looking at her intently. She lifts her head, meeting his eyes for a second. Those rich caramel brown eyes of hers were wary of him. And it was like a stab to the gut. He shook his head, inching closer, "Mal—"

"Stiles," she interjects, shrugging his hand off her arm, as she shifts her weight. "Just put your shirt back on."

Stiles blinks, confused his eyes dart down to the shirt dangling from his fingertips then back to her. Malia brings a hand up to her face, and kneads at her eyebrow. Stiles chews on his lip. _Oh, so this wasn't just killing him._

He clears his throat, "Right, sorry." and shrugs the t-shirt back over his head. When he looks up Malia's eyes dart up to meet his, and she blows out a breath, crossing her arms tight over her chest. Her eyes are a shade darker than usual as she watches him and Stiles can't help but get pulled in by them and stare right back. He shifts closer, unconsciously and this time Malia doesn't give any ground she just keeps watching him. Then a high-pitched beep pierced the silence and reverberated through the old farm house. Stiles jolted in surprise his head darting toward the hall. Malia blinked, "That's, uh, the washer. I'm gonna go put your laundry in the dryer." She said as she stepped around him into the hall. Stiles watches her go then sighs and leans back against the sink.


	9. Here With Me

Stiles just leans back against the sink and rubs a hand across his face. _What are you doing, Stilinski? What did you think? That you'd flash her those big brown eyes and she'd jump back into your arms? C'mon man she deserves better from you._ He chastises himself. The rain is coming down harder now, pounding against the tin roof. Tree branches thrash in the howling wind and knock against the sides of the house. Lightning flares across the bathroom window, followed by a deep rumble of thunder. Stiles looks up noticing for the first time how rough the storm has grown.

Down the hall he can hear the mechanical groan of the dryer starting up. He listens to the patter of his wet clothes tumbling in the dryer for a moment before he pushes off the sink and turns. He snags the folded plaid shirt from the corner of the sink and tugs it on. The soft well-worn fabric settles comfortingly over his skin.

As he adjusts the collar slightly, he's caught up in the scent that clings to the fabric. It's a pairing he knows well, the clean, woodsy scent of her laundry detergent, paired with the sweet, tang of her pineapple shampoo. His shoulders droop, as a flash of memories flit across the back of his eyes— _Malia cuddled into his side, with her head tucked under his chin at the beacon hills drive-in—her head on his shoulder during a slow dance at junior prom—Her sitting on the bleachers waiting for him after practice with a smile—That first time she had cast a fugitive glance down the hall before grabbing him and stealing a kiss before class—_

These last few weeks have been pure agony but this, having to wear her scent on his clothes was a whole new level of self-torture.

Lightning streaked across the sky, glancing across the window and thunder clashed so loud that Stiles could feel it in the floorboards of the old farmhouse. The lightbulbs in the bathroom and the hall buzzed with electricity, instantly glowing brighter, before they started to flicker and the whole house was plunged into darkness.

Stiles turns his head from side to side squinting in the darkness and sighs, "...and the hits just keep on coming." Lighting flickers in the window and he's able to just make out the silhouette of the doorframe. Shuffling carefully, he feels his way along the wall and makes his way down the hall.

"Mal?" He calls, as he stumbles slightly over something in the dark. A flashlight cuts through the darkness and glances over him. Stiles raises his hand to cover his eyes from the glare of the light. Malia readjusts her grip and illuminates the stairs for him.

"Power's out in the whole house." She tells him as he climbs down the stairs. "The storm's pretty rough it'll probably be a couple hours before it comes back on." Stiles nods as he reaches the foot of the stairs. The wind whistles and the rain beats against the house. He tries to suppress a shiver, but the farmhouse is old and drafty and with the power out he can already feel the heat starting to leach off his body.

At his feet he hears shuffling and looks down to see Beau. There is another crash of thunder and the big Rottweiler cowers, whining pitifully. Malia reaches between them and strokes the big dog's head.

"Hey, it's O.K—you're O.K." She soothes in a soft, gentle voice. Stiles hunkers down by Beau and ruffles his neck.

"What's the matter with you, tough guy?" He asks and the Rottweiler shifts closer to him and laps at his cheek. Stiles guffaws and brushes his face with the back of his hand.

"Beau's scared of thunder," Malia explains. "Dad found him on the side of the road in a storm when he was, like, four months old."

Stiles swallows hard, "Aww, poor guy," he says, softly as he ruffles the dog's big velvet ears. Beau lets out another whine and then yawns, licking his lips.

"He's stressed." Malia says as she crouches down, reaching out in the dark for something, "Here, can you keep him distracted with this?" She asks as she hands him Beau's favourite dog toy.

"Yeah, sure." He says as he squeaks the floppy-eared rabbit toy. Beau's eyes light up and he nudges Stiles' hand.

Malia rises up from her haunches, "The temperature is gonna start dropping in here pretty quick, I'm gonna go light a fire." She strides off into the dark house leaving him the flashlight. Stiles sits down on the floor and shakes the dog toy, and Beau follows it with his eyes. Stiles tosses it in his hand and Beau grabs onto one of the floppy rabbit's feet and tugs it away from him.

Stiles laughs, "Hey, gimme that rabbit." He says playfully. Beau covers the toy with his paws and whines like a two-pound puppy rather than the hundred-and-ten pound dog that he is, when when Stiles teasingly swipes at the toy. Stiles shakes his head at the big dog, "You're real vicious, huh?" Beau just licks Stiles' hand in response.

When he'd first started coming over to help Malia with her homework, he'd been about as terrified of this big dog as he had been of her father. But he'd learned pretty quickly that the dog was just a big softy. He remembers how Malia had taken his hand in hers and held it out to the dog. _"He's just scared. Don't rush him. Just let him come to you."_ She'd explained. It didn't take long for the dog to warm up to him and pretty soon Beau started siting on Stiles' foot whenever the pair of them were studying at the kitchen table. When he'd been confused as to why Malia just laughed and said, _"He likes you. He's just asking you to stay."_

A wisp of smoke tickles his nose and as he looks up he sees a flicker of light on the floorboards. Stiles rises up, "C'mon, buddy." He says ruffling Beau's neck as he follows the flicker of light and steps around the couch and further into the Tate's living room. As he gets closer he sees Malia's face in the firelight and he forgets how to breathe for a second. She's leaning down holding back her hair as she blows on the embers, coaxing the small fire to catch. The flames rise and start lapping at the wood and the whole room brightens in a soft orange glow. Malia rises up from the fire, brushing her hands off on the knees of her sweatpants.

As she turns she catches sight of him, her eyes dart away and runs a hand through her hair, "You should come warm up." Beau trots over to her wagging his tail, but Stiles lingers by the stairs.

Stiles scratches at the back of his neck, "Nah, I'm good. But you should—"

"Stiles," she sighs, tiredly, "Don't be an idiot."

Stiles chews on his lip, "Right." He mutters as he moves further into the room and sits down on the edge of the couch, his back ramrod straight. Malia just smirks at him from her seat on the hearth. She stands up and reaches for the opened sleeping bag thats hanging off the edge of the couch and unceremoniously dumps it over top of him. Stiles flails his arms in surprise and manages to reach up and tug the sleeping bag down off his head. He shakes his head, his eyes darting to her and arches an eyebrow at her.

Malia just grins and lifts her shoulder in response, "Quit being weird." She chides.

His lips twist in good humour, "Pfft—Me? Weird? Never." He fluffs out the sleeping bag draping it over himself, tucking his arms beneath it. The heat from the fire starts to seep into room, warming the sleeping bag. Stiles sighs as he sinks back into the couch, finally starting to feel warm again. After a minute his eyes flick back to Malia at the fire, she's scratching Beau behind the ears. Stiles shifts beneath the blanket restlessly, and the rustling catches her attention.

"What?" She asks, bluntly.

"It just, uh, wha—what about you?" Malia folds her hands and watches him, her eyes carefully trying to work something out. Then after a moment she stands and moves over to the far end of the couch. Flopping down, she draws her legs up to her chest and tucks her feet beneath the corner of the sleeping bag.

"Feel better?" She asks, as she folds her arms, settling her back against the arm of the couch. Even though she's as far away as humanly possible on a couch this size, he's satisfied that now at least her feet will be warm. He's about to tell her as much when Beau leaps onto the couch, his paw jabbing Stiles hard in the stomach.

"Ooof!" Stiles grunts as the dog shifts his weight off his stomach and starts scratching at the empty length of sleeping bag lying between Stiles and Malia with his paws. Then with an exaggerated stretch Beau settles down on the couch, with his big head resting on Stiles' chest. Malia laughs at Stiles' expression, she moves a little closer on the couch and reaches out to scratch the dog's head.

"I told you he likes you."

"Lucky me," Stiles snickers as he pats Beau's velvety head. Malia's fingers accidentally brushes back and forth along his hand and her touch tingles across his skin.

"Sorry," she blurts out pulling back.

"Here, c'mere." He says shifting over as much as he can manage with a full grown dog half on top of him and holds up the edge of the sleeping bag, offering her more of it. Malia hesitates. "C'mon, Mal, you're hands are freezing." He coaxes. She bites her lip for a second before giving in and sliding closer. Stiles flips the sleeping bag down over her, and with his free arm he tugs it up, until it rests around her shoulders. She settles back against the couch, her left shoulder brushing up against his, with the warm weight of Beau stretched out on top of them.

And for the first time in weeks, the gnawing guilt and constant ache in his chest hurts just a little bit less.


	10. Out of the Woods

Firelight dances in the dark, cutting through the pitch blackness of the drafty old farmhouse. The fire crackles, casting long, pale shadows all around them. They both sit quietly, their eyes drawn in by the lulling rise and fall of the flames. Stiles blinks, having lost himself in thought for a moment. He hunches his shoulders slightly, his hair is still damp from the shower, so there is a slight chill at the back of his neck and on the tips of his ears. While the rest of him is snug and warm beneath the thick sleeping bag.

Beau shifts laying his head on his front paws, which are stretched out on Stiles' lap. The weight of the big Rottweiler half on top of him, while heavy, is actually quite a comforting presence. But it's the feel of Malia sitting so close, with her arm pressed right up against his that's more comforting than anything.

It doesn't matter that she's got the rest of herself carefully angled away from him, while they share the same blanket. What matters is that even after everything had gone wrong between them, she still came looking for him tonight. And even after she found him she refused to leave him on that bridge, even though he'd have probably deserved it if she had. No, she didn't settle until she'd brought him home.

He tilts his head to watch her from the corner of his eye.

 _He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve her._

Lightning flashes blindingly, and the living room's bay windows appear shockingly bright for an instant before falling back into darkness. A jarring clash of thunder follows, rattling the floorboards. Beau whimpers, his whole one-hundred and ten pound body quaking with fear. Malia untucks her cool hands from beneath the sleeping bag and reaches out for Beau, soothing her hand down his neck.

"Shh—shh, it's O.K. buddy." She says in that impossibly tender voice again. Stiles _loves_ that voice. If you'd told him back when he'd first met this fierce, beautiful coyote-girl who had just easily laid him out with one punch, that she could be like this. He never would have believed it. She had been so raw back then, all anger, confidence and rough edges. So intimidating…and tongue-tyingly gorgeous.

He didn't always understand her, especially when they first started this, but it didn't take him long to see through all that toughness. It wasn't that she'd didn't let anything touch her, it wasn't that she didn't feel anything. It was that she felt _everything._ She'd gone so long without having to feel anything that now her emotions were back in full force and it was overwhelming. And all that toughness was her way of coping. But it didn't take long for him to find a few cracks in her facade.

 _…_ _The first time he saw a flicker of curiosity in those guarded brown eyes…the first time her voice lost it's rough edge with him, when she talked about her family, when she promised not to judge._

He watches as she squeaks Beau's toy rabbit for him and strokes his fur. The dog settles soothed by her touch, and chews on his toy. While her focus is on the dog, Stiles can't help watching her and thinking of all times she's allowed close enough to see the gaps in her armour.

 _…_ _The way her cheek dimples when she laughs…how she grins at him sometimes, all teeth and bright eyes…how she sits perched on the edge of his bed, twisting her hands when she can't figure out the right words…the way she runs her hands through his hair and down his back trying to calm him after a nightmare…how she kisses him sometimes, with gentle, unhurried lips like she's got all the time in the world just to savour it._

The first time he saw her, he had no idea what she was going to mean to him. It wasn't love a first sight. She crept up on him. _He never even saw her coming._

He's so caught up in watching Malia that he chuckles in surprise when Beau licks his hand. His eyes dart down to the big Rottweiler, who nudges his hand insistently. He smirks and ruffles the dog's ears.

"He isn't much of a coyote, is he?" He muses, breaking the silence. He feels Malia shift beside him and let out a long drawn out sigh.

"Not everyone is built to be a coyote, Stiles."

He lifts his head, looking to her again. She's staring down at Beau, but in the firelight he can see something sad and almost reflective in those deep brown eyes. He squints, confused. He hadn't been serious. It was just an old joke between them, back from the early days of their relationship. Back then he'd made a point of skipping class with her on the hard days and taking her to the preserve. He'd let her drag him through the woods, showing him her world, all the things she was good at, all the little tricks she'd learned to survive.

He'd been too loud, too slow and uncoordinated to keep up with her and Malia had bluntly concluded that he wouldn't survive long as a coyote. He'd scoffed at her somewhat offended, but she'd been standing above him on the crest of a hill, grinning down at him, with her hands on her hips. He remembers how he felt at the bottom of that hill, staring up at her, completely out of breath. She was in her element and she had looked so damn pleased with herself. It had been worth all the knocks to his ego getting to see her like that.

She doesn't look like that right now. Instead she's got that faraway look in her eyes as she stares at the fire. The look that tells him she isn't here with him right now, she's back in that backseat of that car at the bottom of the ravine.

It stirs up a need in him to banish that look from her eyes. He shifts toward her, suddenly feeling bold, and Beau disturbed by the movement hops down off the couch.

 _"_ Is that what you meant on the bridge?" It had been bothering him ever since she'd said it. "When you said I'm nothing like you?" Beau weaves in between the couch and the coffee table and sits at Malia's feet, resting his chin on Malia's knee.

Malia doesn't look up from the fire, she just subtly ducks her head, hunching to rest her arms on her knees, running one hand along the ruff of Beau's neck.

She blows out a breath, "…something like that."


	11. Closer

There isn't any self-pity in her voice, it's just soft and matter of fact. It riles him, he wants to argue with her. Part of him wants to seize her by the shoulders and shake her till she listens to him. The rest of him just wants to pull her into his arms and whisper to her every good and decent thing he's ever seen her do.

Stiles clenches a fistful of the upholstery on the armrest to keep himself from doing either. He could fill his evidence board with proof to contradict everything she thinks about herself. But nothing he can do or say will ever change how she feels about the accident.

It's one wound that she'll never let heal.

He shifts forward in his seat, tilting his head to the side to watch her. She's perched on the edge of the couch now, staring into the flames, with beau sunk down on her feet. When she'd moved the sleeping bag had slipped down off of her. She must be cold, because she's unconsciously rubbing at her arms.

Stiles tugs the sleeping bag off his lap and shifts closer to her. She lifts her head, her eyes flitting to his as he moves closer. She raises an eyebrow at him, but he ignores her. He unfurls the sleeping bag around her back, and gathers it around her shoulders.

Malia makes no move to stop him, just appraises him cautiously with those big caramel brown eyes. The desire to touch her, comfort her is so pressing that he can't resist reaching up to brush the hair out of her eyes, as he tucks the sleeping bag up around her neck. It's a fleeting touch but Malia's eyes fall closed when his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should. As her eyes flutter back open he slowly retracts his hand, and shifts back to his side of the couch. He clears his throat and looks down at his hands.

"I know you too, y'know, and no matter what you think, what happened in that accident doesn't make you a killer."

"It's not just what I've done, it's what I'm capable of…it's part of me, Stiles, it's in my nature."

"I think I'm somewhat of an expert when it comes to you and your nature," he says softly, his eyes flicking back to hers, "and it's never hurt me."

"Maybe its just a matter of time before it does."

Stiles shakes his head, "You'd never hurt me." He says with conviction.

"How can you know that?"

"Pfft—I've got a thousand reasons, you want 'em listed chronologically or alphabetically?"

Malia brushes the sleeping bag off of her and moves off the couch, "Stiles," she says tiredly, "just stop. Forget I said anything."

Stiles has to look away from her for a second and bite his tongue to keep from arguing with her. When his eyes cut back to her, he finds her crouched down by the fire. She brushes the mesh spark curtain aside with a log and pokes at the fire with it kicking up sparks. Stiles leans forward, clasping his hands in front of himself, as he watches her fuss with the fire. The curve of her face is gilded by firelight and Stiles tilts his head as he watches her, mesmerized, _she's so damn beautiful._

She tosses a few more pieces of wood on the fire and it crackles as the flames climb higher. Bawling up her sleeve she grips the mesh screen's handle and tugs it closed.

His throat clenches, words clawing at his throat, "My best friend didn't have any trouble believing, Theo." he finally says in a low strangled voice. Malia lifts her head to look at him. "You never did." She slides backward sitting on the edge of the stone hearth with her back to the fire. "Even after I hurt you, and after I gave you every reason to stop believing in me, you never did."

She looks down, and knots her fingers in the cuffs of her sweater. "Yeah, well Scott's never slept with you."

Stiles blinks, startled, "Uh…what does that have to do with this?"

Malia's lips twitch upward slightly, "Not what I meant, dumbass. I meant your nightmares, ruthless killers don't usually have night terrors about what they've done."

Stiles looks down and picks at his fingers, "You, uh," he says, when his eyes dart up to meet hers. "You get nightmares too."

Malia sighs and crosses her arms, shrugging, "Yeah, well that's different. Those are about Lindsay and my mom. If someone came at me and I had to put them down I can guarantee you that I wouldn't lose an hour of sleep over it."

Stiles blows out a breath, his lips twisting to one side. She's so damn tough sometimes. Lightning flares in the window again, the answering thunder is a quiet grumble in the distance. His eyes dart to Beau, whose stretched out of the floor, sleeping undisturbed. He sighs, relieved and when he looks back up he finds Malia watching him. His heart picks up speed, he looks down for a second, before his eyes flick back to hers. She's still staring at him steadily, with an inscrutable expression.

Stiles cocks his head to the side and watches her right back. The firelight dances filling the space between them with flickering light. As the wind dies down outside all Stiles can hear is the rush of the rain, and the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

Malia looks away first. She tilts her head to the window, watching the flashes of lightning in the distance. Stiles rubs his sweaty palms on the knees of his jeans and tries not to let his eyes linger on her anymore.

 _It's not a good idea. He's already hurt her enough._

It's quiet for a long time between them with nothing but the pelting of the rain and the crackling of the fire.

Her eyes are still pointed at the window when she breaks the silence, "Can I ask you something about what happened to you _that night?"_

His mouth falls open, but no words come. Thunder booms giving him a slight reprieve from answering her.

Malia chews on her lip, "It's just something I need to know," she presses.

Stiles hesitates looking down, his jaw tensing, but he nods his consent anyway.

"He attacked you the night I left you in the library, didn't he?"

Stiles swallows and nods his head, "He caught up with me in the parking lot…the jeep had stalled."

Malia tenses, her eyes falling downward, "I never should've have left you there."

Stiles shifts forward in his seat, shaking his head at her, "You couldn't have known what was going to happen."

Malia's eyes dart to him, "That school is a deathtrap, and I just left you there." She snaps.

"What happened to me wasn't you fault." He insists.

"All I could think about that night was Tracy."

His lips part, ready to argue with her when his brain finally catches up with what she'd just said, and he goes very still. Malia doesn't usually just come out and say these things. He knew that Tracy being killed had really shaken her up, and he'd been trying to get her to open up about it with him for weeks. But then Donovan had attacked him, and he'd been too anxious and guilty to think about anything other than keeping his secret.

"When I tracked her down, I didn't care what Scott said, I was out for blood. She'd attacked us, left us vulnerable I was ready to put her down. We fought and then I had her, I had my knee right there on her throat and I could've killed her, it would have been easy. But then I looked at her, really looked at her…and all I could see was this scared kid. I let her go. I talked to her, and she heard me, y'know. And for a second I thought—I thought I could save her. Then the dread doctors came through the walls. I tried to stop it, but they had me pinned. They made me watch her die. I couldn't stop it, I couldn't save her."

"Mal," he rasps, wanting nothing more than to reach out to her. "There's nothing you could've done."

Malia brushes a hand across her mouth and leans forward clasping her hands in front of herself. "I was thinking about that when I should've been with you…I should have been there protecting you. If I was there then I would have been the one to kill Donovan and then none of this would be happening to you."

Stiles shakes his head and rises up, moving to crouch in front of her by the fire and reaches out to touch the hand on her knee. "Hey, none of this is your fault," he insists, "Donovan was coming for me, if it wasn't that night, then it would have been the next. You don't get to feel guilty for this, this is my fault."

"Survival costs you something. I had to learn that a long time ago. I wish I could've protected you from that." She says slipping her hand out from beneath his and brushing at her nose with the back of her hand. Stiles doesn't drop his hand, he just lets it settle warmly across her knee. Malia's throat clenches and she swallows hard, "I never wanted you to have to understand…I never wanted you to have to be a coyote, Stiles."

His mouth goes dry as he watches her, his lips parting to say something but he can't form words. Malia just watches him with those sad brown eyes and reaches out to touch him. His eyes close for a second as her small hand cups his shoulder, right above where the gauze bandage lies beneath his shirt.

"Whatever else you might think about yourself," she whispers, his eyes blink open to watch her. "That night you were brave and fast and smart, that's what kept you alive. You don't ever have to be ashamed of that."

Stiles drops his eyes, swallowing hard. Malia's thumb drags soothingly back and forth over top of the bandage on his shoulder. He lets out a shuddery breath, stifling tears as his eyes flick back to hers. She's looking at him so gently. He doesn't deserve that look in her eyes. He licks his lips trying to form words. Then something shifts in Malia's eyes and she lifts her head tilting it slightly, listening.

Stiles blinks, confused then he hears it to, it's the faint hum of electricity. The lamp on the side-table by the couch, suddenly flickers back to life, brightening a corner of the living room with a soft pool of light. The yard light flares against the window, cutting through the darkness and illuminating the rain.

Malia's eyes flick back to him and she lets her hand slip down off his shoulder. A few seconds later, Stiles lets his slide down off her knee and clears his throat, rocking back on his heels.

"The worst of it must be over," Malia says as her eyes dart back to the window. Stiles nods and rises up from his haunches and sits down on the edge of the hearth with her. Stiles keeps his head down, toying with his fingers, resisting looking Malia's way.

Malia rubs her hands on the knees of her sweatpants awkwardly, after a moment she rises up, moving away from the hearth. "I should let you get some rest." She says turning back to face him.

Stiles picks at his fingers, before meeting her eyes, "O.K."

She nods folding her arms, "Will you be alright? Do you want more blankets or pillows?" She asks, gesturing toward the couch.

Stiles shakes his head. "I'll be alright, thanks."

Her eyes dart away and she nods again to herself, "O.K." She picks the sleeping bag up off the floor and drapes it back over the couch, and fluffs one of the cushions for him. She whistles and Beau lifts his head. "C'mon, buddy, let's go to bed." The dog stretches and wags his tail, his big tongue hanging out. He circles the coffee table and trots over to where Stiles sits on the hearth, sitting next to him expectantly. Stiles lets out a huff of laughter and ruffles the dogs big dopey ears.

"G'night big guy." He says fondly.

Malia moves toward the stairs and pats her pant leg, "C'mon, boy." But Beau persists, staring at Stiles with his head cocked to the side, whining slightly.

"Go on, I'm O.K." He whispers to the dog conspiratorially. Beau relents and trots over to Malia who's standing at the foot of the stairs. He lopes past her and up the stairs, disappearing into Malia's room.

Malia pauses at the foot of the stairs, gripping the baluster of the handrail, "Good night, Stiles."

Stiles gets to his feet, "Good night," he says with a forced smile as he shoves his hands in his pockets. When she turns and starts up the stairs, he blows out a breath and rubs a hand through his hair, clenching his eyes shut.

"Malia." He calls, stalling her. She turns back toward him. Stiles licks his lips and moves to the foot of the stairs. He doesn't know what he's trying to say that's the worst part. He's the words guy…and right now he doesn't have the right words, or even enough words to make her understand. So he grips the baluster and just looks at her. Malia tilts her head down at him, her eyes attentive. And then he finds them.

"Thanks for coming to find me tonight, and bringing me here. I was an ungrateful ass and I didn't deserve it."

Malia comes down one step so that she can look him in the eyes. "Stiles," she says softly but firmly. "A couple weeks of you being an ass, it…it doesn't just undo who you are to me."

It's like a punch in the gut. A few words from her and he's levelled, stuck there at the bottom of the stairs. She turns and starts back up the stairs. He doesn't even hear her whisper goodnight. He watches her continue up the stairs, as he tries to get his breath back. She pauses half way up the stairs by the thermostat on the wall, adjusting the heat.

He's never wanted anything more than he wants her in this moment. He wants all her fire, her stubbornness, her gruffness and vulnerability, he wants to kiss her every jagged edge.

His feet carry him up the stairs, driven by a single impulse— _he needs to be closer_ — _so much closer_ —

He pauses standing on the stair below her. Malia turns from the thermostat and arches an eyebrow at his proximity.

"Did you change your mind about that extra blank—" Stiles rises up, planting one of his feet between hers on the stair and kisses her.


	12. Your Lips Should Come With a Warning

His lips just graze hers, but it sends a hot shock all the way through her. Heat rushes to her head, and one of her feet slip down off the stair. She falls into him, her lips parting as she gasps, her hands grasping his shoulders.

Stiles catches her effortlessly, his arms wrapping around her, holding her steady. He's so clumsy and uncoordinated so much of the time that it's easy to forget how strong he actually is.

He takes advantage of her parted lips, tilting his head to drag his lips across hers achingly slow. Malia's hands reflexively tighten on his shoulders, he's so warm and solid beneath her fingers. _How can he already be so warm again after only a few hours?_ She's still freezing, but under his touch she can feel herself steadily thawing.

He's so close...so warm...and he smells deplorably good covered in her scent. It makes the coyote in her chest growl low in approval. He smells as he should, he smells like _hers_.

But that's just the thing...she isn't sure that he is anymore. Malia's hands curl into firsts on his shirt, as she tears her mouth away from his.

"Stiles..." she gasps, but before she can finish her thought, she's distracted by the warmth of his hands skimming up her sides. Stiles shifts on the stairs, and in an instant he has her crowded up against the wall.

Her breathing hitches as his stubble rasps against the cool skin of her neck, as he dips his head nosing the collar of her sweater aside. He finds that sweet spot on her neck with his lips, the spot that has her sagging back against the wall practically purring. She really can't help it — _she_ _honestly can't._ She might be a badass werecoyote, but this boy is her weakness — _and_ _he hasn't kissed her like this for weeks._

Of their own accord her hands slide up his chest. She grips at his hair with one hand, and clings to his shoulder with the other. They're so close she can feel his heart racing through his shirt, right up against hers. His fingers skim beneath the hem of her sweater, and heat pools along her skin everywhere he's touching her. The heat is so thick in the air all around them that she's finding it hard to catch her breath.

Malia's eyes fall closed as she opens and closes her fist in his hair. Stiles growls softly against her throat and Malia shudders, arching her neck into him at the feel of how it buzzes across her skin. She's seized by a deeply primal sort of feminine pride, pride that she is the one to elicit such an animal response from him, this very human male.

He tilts his head up, skimming his nose along her jaw, slowly. His warm breath brushes along her ear. He nuzzles along the shell of her ear before ducking his head and gently tugging on her earlobe with his lips, before adding just a rasp of his teeth.

Malia practically whines in her throat as he shifts his attention away from the sensitive skin of her ear. But the plaintive little sound dies the second he catches her face in his hands and kisses her ardently.

His thumbs stroke along her jaw, as he angles his head back and forth, his mouth slanting hotly against hers. One of his hands slip up the back of her neck and peels off her toque, freeing her hair from being tapped beneath the warm winter cap, and tossing the toque blindly on the stairs.

The kiss slows, as he cards his fingers lovingly through her silky brown hair. Somehow she manages to grasp a shred of self-control and twists her head away. Her hands fist in the front of his shirt, as she tries to hold him away from herself. She unconsciously rocks into his space but she manages, just barely to resist the lure of his mouth. She scowls at herself, even her body is simultaneously pushing and pulling him all at once.

"Stiles," she manages to grit out, as he fixes those sinfully brown eyes on her. "Y-you're confusing me..."


	13. Nothing's Ever Gonna Change That

His warm, steady hands fall away as he takes a step back from her, cursing at himself under his breath, "Sorry." He says, gruffly as he rakes a hand through his messy hair, unable to meet her eyes. "I know I just…I can't." His shoulders sag as he shakes his head. He looks so lost and boyish all of a sudden. Which is a quick turn around from how he'd been just a few seconds ago, when he'd been crowded up against her, kissing her with all that heat.

She tentatively reaches out and curls her fingers in the cuff of his sleeve. Her soft skin just barely grazes his knuckles, but if it were possible, he'd melt into a puddle right at her feet from that alone.

"…you can't what?" She asks tugging gently on his shirt sleeve. Stiles swallows down the lump in his throat before lifting his head, meeting her eyes.

"Stay away from you," he breathes out, his eyes finally meeting hers. He reaches out and brushes his thumb down her cheek. "It's hard enough trying to as it is," he whispers, his big whiskey brown eyes shimmering with tears, as he shrugs his shoulders, "But when you say stuff like that to me I just… _can't_."

His voice is so raw, his eyes so vulnerable, and the way he's looking at her it makes her weak…before she can help herself she nuzzles into the warmth of his hand.

Then she shakes her head, dropping her hand from his sleeve and stepping out of his reach. Anger claws it's way up her throat from somewhere deep in her chest. She wraps her arms tightly around herself, her jaw tensing.

"Why were you trying to?" She snaps, her eyes flashing with fire. "You just left me there, Stiles!" He doesn't shrink back from her anger, he just stands there silent. She shakes her head at him, as tears bead in the corner of her eyes, she looks down, the anger bleeding out of her voice. "We always talk things out. You always help me understand. But you just walked away. You left me sitting there," her voice breaks, "You just left me sitting there wondering what I did wrong."

"Mal…" he whispers, his eyes swimming with guilt. He shakes his head stepping into her space, bracing her shoulders in his hands. "Mal, _baby_ , look at me." He insists with a sudden fire in his low, raspy voice. He gives her shoulders a gentle squeeze, Malia lifts her head. "You didn't do anything wrong, Okay?" He rubs his hands up and down her arms, trying to soothe her, "I'm the one that messed up. It's not your fault, I just…I wanted to feel worse…I _needed_ to feel worse."

Malia tries to swallow down her tears, "You hurt me."

His shoulders sink as he steps closer into her space, bowing his head. "I know," he whispers, thickly. "I'm so sorry, Mal." He looks so broken, so dejected. She hates how hopeless he looks. So she steps into him, wrapping her arms fiercely around him and pressing her forehead to his. Stiles inhales sharply at the contact. Malia reaches up to cup the nape of his neck, as she holds him to her, "I know," she whispers. Stiles winds his arms around her and hanging onto her just as fiercely. They stay like that for a long time, hanging onto each other, sharing the same breath.

"…still love me?" He asks in a small, watery voice.

Malia doesn't lift her forehead from his, she just reaches up to frame his face in her hands. Her nose brushes along his tenderly as she nods, "A couple of weeks of you being a jerk isn't going to change that, Stiles."

He lets out a shuddery sob, and grips her tighter. Malia soothes her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and tips his chin down to kiss him.


End file.
